* * *
WITH FEET NOW CRADLED by comfortable shoes, a face freshly washed and moisturized, and hair swept back into a ponytail, I stepped back out onto the cobblestones with Daisy, and out into a different world.
A caramel-colored door. An awning of crimson and cream stripes. A wall the exact color of the inside of a nectarine. The teeniest balcony I’ve ever seen crammed full of flowers and herbs, a kelly-green potato vine spilling over a shiny azure ceramic planter and racing with blush and baby pink creeping phlox to get down to the cobblestones below.
The cobblestones. What a difference thirty minutes can make. Now that I could see them, could really see them, it was charm central. Speckled and mottled, gray and brown shot through with the tiniest of opalescent sheen every now and again, they were arranged unfailingly in tiny rows and untidy corners, ebbing and flowing as the ground had likely rolled over the years since they’d been laid down.
I hadn’t noticed earlier that Daisy’s street ended just outside her apartment. Around that last bend, with the narrowest of steps going up, up, up, then out of sight, the apartment shared a small courtyard with a few other doors. Countless bicycles and scooters were parked along the narrow street, and in the center were enormous stone planters filled to bursting with red geraniums, raspberry dianthus, orange coleus, and more of that greenest green trailing potato vine.
“This is beautiful,” I breathed, turning 360 degrees and seeing awesome in every direction.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” she said with a grin, looping her arm through my elbow and tugging me down the charming street, away from the courtyard.
And onto another charming street, and another, and another. We twisted and turned, the street not seeming to follow any sort of pattern or grid. I saw everything I’d missed on my earlier death march, this time seeing the then-quiet streets begin to rally and liven up for the day. We passed the Metro stop and headed a few streets past. Everywhere there was action—a horn honking, a bike passing, a scooter scooting—and under it all just a buzz, an undercurrent of energy, even on a quiet Sunday. Cafés were opening up, people crowding into what looked like standing-room-only coffee shops, drinking their tiny coffees while talking loudly and using their hands more than I was used to.
My head turned constantly, swiveling back and forth, not wanting to miss a thing. The fact that I resembled an owl, and most assuredly a tourist, didn’t faze me a bit. I was perking up, my feet didn’t hurt so much, and now that I was out and about, I was . . .
“Famished. I am absolutely famished,” I cried, not wanting to move past the window I was currently staring into. Breads, crusty rolls, thin flat pizzas, and sweet and tempting pastries all crowded onto little trays and into pyramids, begging me to walk right in, sit right down, and cram everything into my mouth.
“Only another block or so,” Daisy assured me, tugging once more on my arm to lead me in the right direction. “I know exactly what you need.”
Ten minutes later I was sitting at a corner table in a café situated at the corner of Incredible and Wow. The shiny coffeemaker behind the bar was bigger than a Fiat, and actually looked more powerful. And speaking of powerful. “That’s heaven,” I sighed, sipping a screaming hot cappuccino, full of frothy foam. “Oh damn, that’s heavener,” I moaned, every nerve ending I had sizzling and snapping at the wonder that was the pastry I was eating. “Please tell me again what this little croissanty thing is?”
“Cornetto,” Daisy said, her American tongue hidden completely inside this delicious word. “Technically that one is a cornetto alla crema.” Jesus, she even rolled her R’s. “I thought you could use a hit of custard.”
“I could use several hits of several somethings,” I moaned again through my cornetto alla whatever. “How late are you keeping me up?”
“Until normal bedtime. I’ve already got plans for you tonight.”
“Huh?” There may have been a crumb or five of cornetto alla spittle clinging to my lower lip; she handed me a napkin. “Seriously, plans tonight? Couldn’t I officially start my vacation tomorrow?”
“Vacation nothing—this is a lifestyle, Avery. And tonight, we celebrate your first night in Rome.”
“Should I even bother trying to get out of this?”
“You can try, but it won’t matter. It’s no big deal, really, just a little dinner with some of my friends, some people from work.”
“Just dinner?”
“Just dinner. Everyone’s excited you’re here, they wanted to have a Welcome Avery party.”
I sipped my cappuccino, humanity seeping back into my bones.
Just a dinner. A party. For me.
“If you’re gonna keep me up tonight, I’m gonna need another one of these.” I sighed, pointing at my cup, then at the cornetto crumbs on my plate. “And another of these. Make sure you roll those R’s for me.”
* * *
WITH THE SHOCK OF FOUR shots of espresso giving me a much-needed boost, I trailed happily behind Daisy, soaking up Rome. The warm air licked up my bare legs, flirting at the hem of my linen shift. I remained mindful of the gaps in the ancient roads, while she glided across them without even glancing down.
In heels.
If she was Grace Kelly, I was Bambi on new legs tripping over lifted edges and thick gaps even in my gold Tieks.
I thought I knew what Rome looked like, based on the fact that I’d studied art history, held a degree in the subject, in fact. Key word there . . . thought.
The truth was, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Studying thin white pages filled with reproductions of its art and travel guides for reference couldn’t have prepared me for the full Roman immersive experience. What was that line from Good Will Hunting? I bet you can’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. I was the Will Hunting of Rome. There wasn’t a textbook available that could put into words what this city looked like to virgin eyes.
The brilliant late-afternoon sun chased the rooftops glistening and gleaming over steam pipes and clay tiles. The city even had its own sound. You could almost hear the history with every step on the road, every scoop of gelato, each slap of the pizza, and every buona sera shouted from the stoops. Daisy pointed, I gaped. An explanation of what I was gawking at always came seconds before she had to practically push up my chin to stop a pigeon from roosting inside my mouth.
We sat for a much-needed rest on the edge of a fountain. I leaned back, soaking up the last of the setting sun when Daisy said she’d be right back.
Sitting beside me, she held out a bag of arancini. “Something to hold us over until dinner.”
“These are ridiculously good,” I moaned, biting into it with gusto. The melted mozzarella at the center was incredible.
“You’re in for a treat, then, because this is just street food. This place we’re headed, Avery, you’ll want to marry the gnocchi. Melt in your mouth and sinful. No, no, get the arrabiata, spicy and delectable. Wait! I know, get the fresh pesto. The garlic sings in your mouth!” she rambled excitedly.
I warmed at this version of her. Even though back home Daisy came from a well-to-do family, had a top-notch education, and grew up in the same wealthy, Waspy lifestyle that Daniel and I did, things weren’t that easy for her. She never quite fit in with the crowd we ran with. She was a tomboy in a sea of debutantes.
Always the first to challenge authority, especially the mothers like Bitsy who looked down their noses at an intelligent, driven, and God forbid, opinionated young woman, she rankled people with her independence.
Here, European Daisy was carefree, ebullient, and so full of life it was shining out of her. Anything that may have held her back at home was fostered here, not smothered. This life suited her perfectly. She embraced the culture fully and without a care in the world. She ciaod and come staid to everyone we passed.
“And the zuppa? Dio mio.”
“What does that mean, dio mio?”
She shrugged, waving to another shop owner. “Some
thing like oh my goodness. I don’t know, really. Everyone says it differently, too. And don’t get me started on all the different dialects; the dialects alone are a completely different language.”
The area of the Rome where she lived, I was discovering, was a living and breathing organism.
“It’s not as touristy as, say, right up by the Vatican or the other hugely popular landmarks. Trastevere,” she said perfectly and excitedly, “is a younger crowd. Working class, amazing nightlife, but very chill. It’s like this little secret corner of the city that’s fiery and magnetic.”
“Is that why you picked this neighborhood to live?”
Nodding, she pointed to an alley coming up. “The firm helped me scout places before I moved here from Boston. This was the first place I looked at and I didn’t bother checking the rest. I fell in love with my little corner.”
“I can see why.” It suited her with the bursts of color and energy.
We walked down a small alley that felt like we’d entered a postcard. Bicycles leaned against the roughened lemon-colored buildings. Lines of clothes were draped between them, dripping fat water droplets around us. Tables topped with white umbrellas were filling up. Singles, couples, families—everyone taking seats and greeting each other.
Daisy chirped nonstop. “The pistachio gelato here? Orgasmic. You gotta come here some afternoon; there’s a guy that sells these little flowers that he’ll weave into your hair for, like, a dollar; they’re so cute! If you need anything, condoms, tampons, aspirin, come here.”
“Condoms?” I laughed, shaking my head.
She shrugged as if it were perfectly acceptable to assume I’d need some while here.
I knew better than to argue with her, so I just smiled and nodded. We weaved in and out of the Piazza di Santa Maria’s labyrinth of streets. Glittering mosaics that were baked into the masonry glinted as the fading sunlight blanketed the buildings in a golden glow. The centers of the streets were filled with terra-cotta planters, ivy, and bright red flowers pouring over the edges. In the approaching sunset, they were bathed in gorgeous golden hues.
And pedestrians. Hundreds walked about like a Roman heartbeat livening up the city as they took in dinner menus or window shopped. Some shared a gelato or a glass of wine. It was nice to see people out enjoying their city, just for the pleasure of it. No one seemed to walk simply to enjoy Boston anymore. We were always in a rush or had a faceful of technology. But you could tell that for the people who lived here, Rome was their backyard, their front yard, their living room, their dining room . . . and maybe even their bedroom.
Turning onto Via del Moro, we passed shops and cafés readying for the late dinner rush. Each building had outdoor seating, every table loud and boisterous.
I was swept up in the city’s energy. It seeped into every pore, moving me along like a marionette; by the time we reached the restaurant, I had sensory overload in the best possible way. The restaurant looked to be about the same as a dozen others that we passed. Brick, old as dirt, and full of life.
“Across the river is another favorite spot of mine. Campo de’ Fiori, this gorgeous outdoor market over the bridge. You’ll have to see it. It’s like a color explosion. Bring your sketchbook for sure.”
“Mm-hmm.” I nodded absently, watching the traffic patterns and trying to discern if there was indeed a pattern or just barely contained chaos.
“Do you still like charcoal when you sketch? I know for a while there you were digging colored pencils, right?”
“Hmm? Yeah, either I guess.”
“You guess?” she asked, looking at me curiously.
I stopped, chewing nervously on my ponytail, and narrowly missed getting clipped by a Vespa zipping by. The driver shouted a colorful expletive and tapped his helmet. “Where exactly are we headed to next? Are we close or—”
Daisy stopped abruptly, whipping around to face me. “Did you just change the subject? I know a sidestep when I see one, Bardot,” she said, using my maiden name. She was my maid-of-honor when I became Avery Remington, but she was my only friend who refused to use that name.
I shrugged, closing the distance and walking around her to head up the narrow alley that spilled into a bustling piazza. Dozens of people were chatting near a fountain. Others were pointing their cameras at the crush of pigeons dive-bombing the crust a waiter tossed outside. It was busy, frenetic, and hopefully distracting enough to—
“Hey, hey!” Daisy shouted, catching up. Nope. She wasn’t going to be distracted by this. Sighing heavily, I turned to face my friend.
I’d gotten used to avoiding that conversation over the years when it was over the phone or on Facebook. “How’s your sketching going; working on anything new?” or, “Finish anything incredible lately?” Facebook posts I could beg off of. Phone calls, I was able to change the subject or blame the shitty signal because she was off on some adventure where the least exciting part was spotty cell phone coverage. Those calls proved to me how fully she was living her life, which I didn’t begrudge her, but that made mine seem boring and flat in comparison.
But face-to-face? She’d called my dodge in less than a day. I couldn’t hide from her disbelief.
Glancing at the signs, I looked side to side but couldn’t figure out which way we were supposed to head. Everything looked the same on every street.
“It’s just not something I do much of anymore.”
“Not much of?”
“Or at all.”
“But you loved to sketch, you loved to paint. How many hours did you used to spend in the art building at BC? You practically lived in that studio.”
“Yeah, well, Boston College was a long time ago; maybe I just fell out of love with it.” I could hear how thin my excuses were, so thin they were nearly transparent.
Based on the way she was shaking her head, she wasn’t buying it, either. “Huh-uh, no way. You don’t just fall out of love with it.”
“People fall out of love with things all the time, Daisy. I think me being here is a perfect example of how true that can be.”
I could feel tears beginning to build. Jesus this was hard to talk about. Blinking them back, I rubbed the invisible ache in my chest.
“I’m not trying to minimize Daniel here, but I’m actually more concerned about the fact that you’re not sketching anymore than I am about you divorcing your husband.”
“What do you want me to tell you?” I snapped. “That somewhere, yesterday or years ago, I set aside some of my own great stuff to focus on Daniel’s great stuff. Like how getting him through law school trumped me going to grad school. That being an understanding wife when he started at the firm and had to work seventy hours a week meant that there wasn’t time for me to go back to the gallery. Creating a beautiful home for us took precedent. Managing every single one of the countless bullshit details that it took to keep our lives running smoothly so that he could go and be a bigshot lawyer and I could make sure that the gardener wasn’t cheating us on the price of fertilizer!”
I was yelling. I was yelling at my best friend in the middle of a crowded street in Rome just because she had the audacity to ask me about something that at one point in my life was the very definition of who I was and who I would become.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
She held up her hand. “Don’t apologize.” She linked her arm through mine.
“But I yelled at you,” I sniffed, wiping away frustrated tears with the back of my hand.
“Yes you did.” She laughed lightly. “You want to sketch while you’re here, sketch. You want to just wander around and enjoy? Do that, too. Do whatever you want while you’re here, Avery, I mean that. And don’t worry about stuff like fertilizer anymore, capisce?”
“Capisci,” I said, nodding.
“Good, that’s settled,” she said. “Now come on, Fodors, the restaurant, is this way. Unless you want to yell at me some more.”
“Oh just take me to dinner,” I said, squeezing her arm, gratef
ul to be here and with someone who actually cared about me and what I might want for a change. And right now, I really did want dinner.
We took off again into the crowded streets, our arms still linked as we threaded through everyone else out and about on this gorgeous night.
We finally stopped when we came upon a gentleman sitting on a step in front of a café strumming a guitar. Daisy greeted him by name. It was such a quintessential European moment: random older man, guitar, café. I half expected Robert DeNiro to slide alongside of me and throw his arm over my shoulder. With a kiss on both cheeks, she said, “Ciao, Bruno, this is Avery, my friend from America I told you about.” She waved her hand for me to join her.
The café owner was older, tufts of white wispy hair sticking out from all over his head and kind eyes that sparkled gold in the streetlamp. His gray shirt was smattered with crumbs from the bread he had just bitten into. “Buona sera,” he said, pulling me in for a few kisses and an extralong hug.
“I bet everyone is here already,” Daisy said excitedly, walking through the street seating and into the restaurant.
Begging off from the owner, I joined her breezing through the inside, past the dining guests, clanking plates, and busy servers and out the back door to a courtyard that opened up to the star-filled sky, endless and breathtaking.
Maybe it was Daisy’s comments from earlier, or maybe it was that phantom limb feeling happening again, but my hand flexed and I wanted to drop into a chair and sketch right away. No landscape, hell, no anything had hit me with such urgency like that in years. Daisy was right, I needed to find a store for materials. I made a deal with myself then and there that I would find one and buy supplies. Even if it was just a handful of pastels and a notebook and I didn’t use them. I would at least have them.
Walking to the outer wall, I slid my fingers down the rough, peachy exterior. Smudges of chalky residue dusted over my fingertips.
Oh yeah, I would totally use them.
Ivy climbed the light colored brick walls and disappeared over the edge. Thick bunches of vibrant purple bougainvillea danced over the opposite wall. But it was the stars twinkling above that mixed with the fat, clear round bulbs of fairy lights that drew my eyes to the table full of people.